


sprig

by fuckingspacequeen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, I just tried to write Erica Boyd, Lydia's a babe, M/M, Stiles is kind of oblivious, There's minimal flirting, everyone's a human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingspacequeen/pseuds/fuckingspacequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia plays matchmaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sprig

When Lydia had said they were invited to a party to meet her new work friends, Stiles had been _all for_ that. Lydia didn’t attend parties that weren’t legendary, and since college, Stiles has developed a taste for legendary.

What he hasn’t developed a taste for, however, is being Lydia’s pet project. It’s been a long time since he’s been the kid mooning over her, and actually it turns out that he’s far more comfortable being close friends with her than anything else. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it when she treats him like a fashion accessory.

“ _You_ ,” she’d said, pointing imperiously at Stiles, and then crooking her finger. “Come with me.”

Stiles has always been powerless to resist Lydia when she gets like this, because he who dares say no to Lydia Martin is probably suicidal. Stiles knows this to be a hard, cold fact, because he’s seen Lydia utterly destroy men like the lesser mortals they are.

If he scrambles to comply to her command, nobody’s going to judge him for it. This is Lydia; _everyone_ scrambles for her.

And, okay, maybe he’d dredged up some courage from the deep depths of his soul, balking at the idea of the pair of jeans she had thrust toward him.

“No, Lydia, oh my god, no!” he’d tried, pushing the jeans back into her hands and then watching them slide to the floor when she refused to take them back. The glint in her eye says she’s a woman on a mission, and Stiles doesn’t know what exactly that mission is, but he nevertheless finds himself bending over to retrieve the jeans from the floor.

Surprisingly, he finds the jeans a little loose, and when he turns around to let Lydia survey them, she just smirks at him, smug, before handing him a skinny black belt. As he slides it through the loopholes, she tugs the jeans in different directions, before stepping back with a pleased hum.

“I knew they’d be perfect on you,” she says, before handing Stiles one of his own (thank god) black tops, and a pair of boots that he’s never seen before in his life.

Instead of wasting his time protesting, he just sits down, pulls the top over his head and rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, before toeing on the boots.

He can feel Lydia’s eyes on him as he laces them up and asks, “What’s the occasion, anyway? You usually only dress me up when you’re trying to impress someone.”

Lydia tsks. “It’s a _work party,_ Stiles,” she says, like it’s obvious, “I’m trying to impress everyone.”

“By putting me in tie-dye jeans?” Stiles asks before he can bite down on his tongue. He looks up at Lydia and catches a flash of a suspiciously almost-guilty expression.

Stiles widens his eyes at her. “What? What’s going on? I know that look, Lydia.”

She puts her hands on her hips, pursing her lips at him a little. “There’s this guy—“ she begins, pointing a finger at him before he can interrupt. “No, let me finish. _There’s this guy,_ and I’ve vetted him for you, alright, Stiles, and it’s time you got back on the dating wagon. So, this is you. Getting back on the wagon.”

Stiles should’ve known she’d never invite him to a work party without an ulterior motive.

“You want me to get back on the wagon in _tie-dye_ jeans?” he asks, incredulously.

Lydia tsks again, and this time her expression is flinty as she flips her hair over her shoulder. “They’re not tie-dye anything, Stiles, and I’ve yet to see you fail to pull in anything _I_ put you in – don’t bring up that one time with that guy, that was your fault for puking on his shoes, the clothes had nothing to do with it.”

Stiles fights the smile threatening his features, because okay, that particular date had been a total and utter disaster, but in hindsight it’s kind of funny. You know, not that it was at all funny at the time, considering that he got serious food poisoning and spent a week with fluids violently ejecting themselves from both ends. Whatever. Maybe Lydia’s right.

“Alright,” he sighs, defeated, honestly, because Lydia won’t take no for an answer now he’s dressed, anyway.

“I’ll let you whore me out, but if he turns out to be a complete douchecanoe, I’m not above leaving.”

Clearly he doesn’t sound as threatening as he thinks, because Lydia just pats him on the head and says, “Chop chop. Time’s a-wasting.”

*

Stiles has never felt more idiotic or out of place in his _life,_ and considering who he is and the way his mouth tends to run away with him, that is seriously saying something.

Scott had promised to stick to his side like glue, but then Lydia had introduced him to this brunette, Allison, who had dimpled at them when she smiled. Stiles had almost been able to pinpoint the exact second that Scott had fallen absolutely and hopelessly in love with her.

He’s a good bro, the best, in fact, because as soon as he’d seen what was going on, he’d made a flimsy excuse and then beat a hasty retreat. Scott beaming at him and giving him a thumbs up behind Allison’s back almost five minutes later had made it totally worth it, though.

Never let it be said that Stiles isn’t the best wingman ever.

Of course, the downside is that he’s been left irrevocably alone, with no Lydia in sight, and a kind of anxious feeling settling in his gut over the possibility of this guy she’d threatened him with.

Stiles helps himself to another glass of champagne, which, of course, champagne, why not? So much for it being a work party, though. Lydia appears to have turned it into an opportunity to do some match-making. Stiles knows this to be a fact, because he can see her introducing Erica to some guy, and Stiles knows Erica’s type, okay, and this guy is _it._

He can’t really fault Lydia for her matchmaking so far, although since he’s still alone drinking expensive champagne he probably can’t pronounce the name of, bubbles rising up his nose every time he takes a sip, he’s not feeling too charitable right at that moment in time.

That is, until a voice to his right, smooth as honey says, “Lydia doesn’t waste any time, does she?”

Stiles jumps, nearly drops his glass, and then finds himself face to face with… well, actually he’s pretty sure this man is not a man, but in fact, a God. Seriously. Stiles’ gaze tracks over the chiselled, stubbled jawline, the full mouth, the straight nose, the cheekbones, _Dear God_ , finally stopping when he meets the guy’s eyes. And, okay, wow, that’s not fair, because this guy has at least six different colours swirling around in there, and Stiles could get lost in that shade of ever-changing green.

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks, only realising he’s been staring too long when his Godlike companion raises an eyebrow. Stiles had missed the eyebrows at first, and now he’s suddenly caught up in how… eyebrow-y they are.

“She’s somethin’ alright,” he adds, occupies his mouth with a large gulp of champagne and completely misses the way the guy watches. Stiles is too busy looking over at where Lydia is apparently still matchmaking Erica with her gorgeous, muscled co-worker.

And… speaking of muscles, Stiles is ashamed to admit that it’s not until that moment in time that he realises just how _built_ the guy standing next to him is. Stiles can feel his cheeks going a little warm as he takes in the broad shoulders and the muscles pulling against the soft fabric of a grey Henley. He’s betting every last cent he has that he’s hiding a six pack under there.

Fuck, Stiles totally has a type, and this guy is _it._

If the guy notices his continued staring, however, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “Boyd’s been eyeing up that blonde all night. She’s probably doing him a favour by taking the initiative; he never would have otherwise.”

Stiles looks back over at the small group, and then focusses back on the guy’s face. “Erica seems to like him,” he agrees.

“Friend of yours?” the guy asks, arching an eyebrow again.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, Lydia dragged us here on false pretences, actually. See the guy over there, with Allison? That’s my buddy Scott. Guess how long it took her to set those two up?”

The guy looks over to where Stiles is pointing and then chuckles. Scott and Allison are standing close enough that their arms are brushing, heads almost pressed together as they talk. Whatever Scott says makes Allison throw her head back and laugh, and Scott looks like all his birthdays and Christmases have come at once.

Stiles can’t help but grin as his companion says, “Looks like she wasn’t wrong about them, either.”

“That’s my Scotty,” Stiles agrees, a bubble of pride welling in his chest.

The guy is looking back at him, looking him _over_ , in fact, consideringly. “No matchmaking for you?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Lydia mentioned that there was some guy—it’s why I’m wearing these stupid jeans.”

He looks down at himself and the guy follows suit, smirking a little. “They look good on you,” he says.

Stiles can feel his cheeks heating up, and instead of accepting the compliment he shifts restlessly from foot to foot, looks up, offering the guy a hand. “My name’s Stiles, by the way.”

“Stiles?” the guy echoes, taking his hand and shaking it. His palms are warm and soft, and Stiles is acutely aware of the fact that he’s suddenly sweating. “I’m Derek.”

“Yeah, it’s a nickname,” Stiles answers, used to this line of questioning by now; at least the guy, Derek, hadn’t looked too sceptical of his name. Stiles realises a little too late that he’s been holding onto Derek’s hand for too long and pulls away, hastily.

“Nice to meet you,” he adds, busying himself with the champagne again. If the glass were bigger, maybe he could drown himself in it.

Derek seems amused rather than weirded out or annoyed, so Stiles counts that as a plus, although it becomes less of a positive when the silence stretches between them. Derek’s looking at him kind of expectantly, and Stiles has no idea what it is that he’s supposed to say, fumbles for any kind of conversation starter, and then winces at himself as he comes up with, “So, you work here too?”

Derek’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, and he looks more amused, if that’s even possible, as he nods. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Dude,” Stiles reproaches, “It’s pretty cut and dry. Either you _do_ work here, or you _don’t._ ”

For the first time, Derek looks almost uncomfortable, ducks his head a little, but doesn’t drop his gaze as he says, “Well… my family own the company.”

Stiles boggles for a second. “So that makes you… Derek Hale? As in, _Derek Hale_?” he asks.

Derek nods. “I guess it does.”

Stiles doesn’t reproach him this time, although seriously, Stiles prefers absolutes to maybes and grey areas, damnit. But then, he guesses that being the son of a multibillionaire and probable successor to Hale Consolidated means that Derek gets to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Although that does beg the question as to what he’s doing there. “Why are you standing here talking to me, then?” Stiles asks. It’s a totally valid question. If Stiles thought Derek was out of his league before, now they’re talking light years. It’s kind of depressing, actually.

Derek furrows his brow, looks a little confused, and Stiles almost wants to tell him how adorable that makes him look. He doesn’t, for reasons of dignity.

“Why wouldn’t I be talking to you?” he asks, as though there’s not obviously a million better places he could be right now.

Stiles snorts. “Right, because I’m a total delight,” he shoots back.

He’s surprised when Derek deadpans, “Of course you are.”

It shocks a laugh out of Stiles, who’s pretty sure Derek can’t possibly think that at all.

“Are you sure you’re not just here for my fashionably tie-dyed jeans?” he teases, wriggling around for effect. The last thing he expects is for Derek to lean back and actually _check him out_ from behind.

“I’m definitely here for that,” Derek asserts, and Stiles almost chokes on his own saliva.

He raises his eyebrows at Derek as if to say ‘seriously?’ and Derek just lifts one shoulder. Stiles downs the rest of his glass of champagne in one go.

“You know, whatever douchebag Lydia wanted to set me up with has probably decided to throw himself off a building, because otherwise she’d be over here smushing our faces together,” Stiles begins, ignoring the amused way Derek’s looking at him and irritated by the way his mouth suddenly feels like a sandtrap.

“So, uh, I was thinkin’…you wanna get out of here and get a real drink somewhere?”

He’s only half surprised when Derek smiles and says, “Sure.”

*

Later, when Stiles is lying half-sprawled over Derek’s chest, after Derek’s shown him just how much he likes Stiles in those jeans, he gets a text from Lydia that simply reads: _Told you._


End file.
